


Witch Trial

by YUUNGMASTER



Category: Warhammer - All Media Types, Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: 40k, Grimdark, Inquisition, Psychological, Science Fiction, Warhammer - Freeform, Wizards, psyker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 19:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20569460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YUUNGMASTER/pseuds/YUUNGMASTER
Summary: The human Psyker is many things in the 42nd Millennium. Feared, coveted, powerful, and hated. Icarus Ivarius has fought with the Imperial Guard, the fighting force of the Imperium of Mankind for most of his life, so when he finds himself taken and put on trial, his faith in the eternal God-Emperor, deity of all humans, will be stressed to its very limit. To stay loyal even in the most dire of conditions, that is the way of the witch allowed to live.





	Witch Trial

Icarus Ivarius was doomed— he knew this much. He knelt, shackled to the floor by oppressive chains, heavy and coursing with power meant to strike out at any show of resistance. He looked only forward, the collar around his neck, attached to the cold steel hull of the vessel he was confined to, had been tightened where even to swallow would invite near-suffocation. This place was caliginous indeed, for there was no place he could see even lit by a single candle. Bruised and beaten, Icarus accepted that he was at the end of his rope, the Astra Telepathica had surely known him better than to rebel against his betters, his superiors, nevertheless against Holy Terra’s Inquisitorial agents, who had been, to his eternal dismay, his assailants and jailkeepers. Icarus, as he knelt bleeding and weak, recalled how he had been an unshakable and truehearted fighter amongst the Brimlock 66th Infantry Regiment of Imperial Guardsman. Tasked with providing the regiment and regimental command staff with the gifts granted onto him by the God-Emperor of Mankind, Icarus not once had shown hesitation in his life as a Primaris Psyker, nor had he planned on retirement. His memory went to the months, years even, that he would spend smelling sulfur and burning metal along his officer on the frontline, and knowing the scent as an omen of victory.

Icarus Ivarius smelt no such omen today. He cocked a small grin, more of heart-curling shame than smugness. When they, dressed in sable black uniforms and carapace, came for him at the behest of The Holy Orders of the Emperor's Inquisition, his comrades including his dear officer, had given him without so much a second thought. Was it out of soldiers-duty, or perhaps had they thought he had done something unbecoming of one of the -good- ones of his kind, or maybe they had been looking for a reason to dismiss the embodiment of their superstition all that time he had served? No matter the reason, Icarus forgave his former brothers-in-arms, Icarus would have done the same for any of them, as a loyal Imperium man should. However, reflecting on his treatment, and the way that his keepers had nullified him through methods unknown to him as well as the close-proximity placement of one of the dark-hearted soulless, somewhere out of sight but not out of feel, Icarus wondered if it was truly worth being loyal in his heart. He was shamed of being alive in the state he was born it, for it marked him and followed him like the blackest of clouds until it finally ended him here, in the bowels of the Inquisitorial ship _Tenebrous Crucifixum_. A “black-ship”, there was nothing radiant of his void-travelling cell. Its lights were myth, and the paint as devoid as the soulless vessel of a dead-man. The only sounds unbroken by Icarus' heavy breathing and cringing at the sting of his wounds, of which most of them being various lashings against his face and torso, were the scarcely un-uniformed pattern of the ship’s great engines humming. It was no camp, no field station, no training facility, and it twisted a deep fear lurking within and threatened to expose it with each ominous sound made in his “room” and the hall beyond. Desperate, cold, and lost he turned to the one who would understand the fine contents of his soul, and surely deliver him in his most confused and disturbed time. ‘God-Emperor hear my prayer, and cast vigil over I, your servant both loyal and true, as I begin to step into the unknown. I plead you to keep my soul close to your clutches, and if I am to meet my end bring about it in peace, silence, and speed. I hail you as the Master of Mankin-‘ then, Icarus’ blood ran cold. The large door adjacent to his confinements had opened, and through the use of his psychic ability, as weak as it may have been, had set his sights upon his leading captor. The Inquisitor. He stood ominously in the door-way, sheathed by the oppressive shadows of the vessel, unmoving as if meeting Icarus’ glare, as if he was peering into the Psykers spirit as the Psyker now did to him. The more he stood there, the more it drove Icarus mad with quivering anxiety and paranoia, but the more the psyker looked into his captor’s spirit, the more he could not avert his eyes. Icarus, only a few seconds into this stare-down, began to weep. When the cackling noise of his sniffling broke the silence, the Inquisitor began to slowly move forward, taking something from his waist, something small in size dangling from a smaller chain. Icarus, even as the Inquisitor broke from his grinding stare, continued to weep as he was forced to keep looking forward at his despot, partly due to the circumstance of which he had been binded, and mostly because of what he saw: the Inquisitor that slowly marched to him was unlike the ship around him, and unlike most of all of the men he had ever even shot a small glimpse upon. This Inquisitor’s soul shone beautifully like a pyre of blinding white radiance warding off the pure dark around them, and Icarus had known that the Inquisitor was more righteous than he could ever aspire. Humbled, awe-struck, and terrified, Icarus submitted himself fully to the unknown personage that now was only one and a half meters away.

The Inquisitor looked down upon the captive, and stood over him, two meters tall. Icarus could not make out any facial features, or any articles of clothing beyond a long-coat. All Icarus saw was the spirit of a truly bright one. The Inquisitor spoke suddenly, deeply yet impossibly clearly and smooth. ‘Hear me, condemned. I have come to you, not out of empathy or pity, but to warn. While your physical judgement has been decreed and recorded into the folds of history, the trial of your soul has yet to begin. Far beyond the influence of mortals, the God-Emperor will be your final judge. Lash out and resist, and your condemnation will be absolute in both this world and the next. You will die, Icarus Ivarius, and you will die properly. Rejoice it will not be at the hands of the traitor, heretic, mutant, or alien.’ The Inquisitor held from that small chain, his symbol of office, his badge. Icarus knew his life was coming to it’s end, this did not shake him. He would remain stalwart and fearless, even onto death, however, the words still spilled out of his mouth like a child’s ignorant questions, unorganised and plagued by fear. ‘M-my Lord. Please- tell me my crime, if-if you will allow it, Lord.’ Icarus silently cursed himself for his foley, the God-Emperor surely watched as he pleaded to the executioner, and the God-Emperor surely turned away. The Inquisitor allowed moments to pass without answer, staring into Icarus as he did earlier in the doorway, and as that same fear began to return to Icarus he was bestowed an answer. The Inquisitor wrapped his symbol across his wrist, and brought it close to his face. There was a small sanguine candle embedded into the symbol, and so it shone. The light was enough to illuminate the Inquisitor, enough for Icarus to be able to lay his eyes upon the man. ‘You will see as I have, Psyker.’ The Inquisitor spoke with possibility of irony. Icarus observed, breaking into a hard sweat: This Inquisitor bore no visible eyes, themselves covered by a crimson-red wrap that extended in full-circumference around his head. Icarus did not feel any Psyker presence from the Inquisitor, and soon the Inquisitor would turn to leave without another word shared between either of them. Icarus shivered as the doors closed shut, and the solitary of his cell became all the more painful as the air became all the more cold. Soon, in the Inquisitor’s place, a group of menials came into the small confinement, clicking and shuddering with archaic technology. Whereas a lone unit would come to deliver food, only enough to keep him just alive, this time there were four, and none bore offerings for the ill-fated prisoner.

‘I will see, as you saw.’ Icarus echoed the Inquisitor’s parting words as the menial servitors unclasped his chains, relieving him of only the smallest amount of stresses before they latched onto him, and began to drag him by his upper-body through the room, out of the door, and into the vast hall of_ Tenebrous Crucifixum_. Icarus’ head hang low, and a choir of low-pitched chanting filled his ears, emitted by speakers aligning the ship’s walls. They felt accusatory, condemning, and it would push Icarus to his edge. Teetering on the borderline, Icarus would have attempted, even in vain, to rise against his captors, but various factors kept him from this, namely the Inquisitor himself. Each recollection would humble the Psyker, and with each humbling his submission would he reaffirmed. The long and winding halls of the void-ship began to seem endless to Icarus, and during the time it took he silently prayed, not as if the menials would have protested anyhow. Icarus would close his eyes, only reopening them when a familiar scent filled his nose, and even though the enveloping darkness kept him from observing his surroundings the smell allowed him to understand his current location: a hangar. The smell of fuel had gave it away. Icarus gave thanks upon this new understanding, for he understood that this meant he would not die here, in this dreadful setting. Pulled further, Icarus would feel his legs, bleeding from the dragging, touch a different kind of cold metal. The cold bolted-metal of an Imperial Navy Valkyrie light-transport gunship. He knew he was the lone passenger in the back-space, and though he had no window to set eyes out of, the following sound of multiple other light-craft told him that the ride he would now take would not be alone. During the vessels quick descent into orbital space, Icarus once more reflected on his situation. What could his crime have possibly been, to render his loyal life and service completely null and void? He held little reservation of being executed by The Holy Inquisition, he was far too loyal even now to resist, but he wondered why. Why would his life have to end? Why would he have to stop fighting the God-Emperor’s enemies? The only answer to these thoughts would be the shaking of the light-craft as it entered the atmosphere.

Having not been provided with the means to fasten himself and properly secure his body in the Valkyrie, Icarus accelerated into the air and collided skull-first against the top of the craft with a large -CRKK-. His form slammed on the cold surface, laying on its side, and suddenly he was jolted to the side-door, where his ribcage felt as if they would suddenly splinter into a thousand smaller shards due to the speed and force in which he slammed against it. Seconds would go by as Icarus was thrown about, eyes closed and silently praying for it all to cease. The same primal urge he had felt not too long ago would slowly but surely begin to rise in the depth of his chest, the primal urge to use his power and kill, even if it would take him in the process. He could do it now too, with no nulling force or vigilant guard attending to him, there was nothing stopping Icarus from unleashing a horrible stream of lightning powered from the warp and kill. But Icarus remembered the Inquisitor’s words, he remembered his oath to the Imperium and it’s God-Emperor, and he would submit once again. The pain only swelled, collecting like grim reminders of his misfortune, but Icarus did not rebel. After time had passed, he would lay broken and crushed both physically and emotionally, however, the ricocheting would finally stop. This made his spirits rise again, as he knew that this would mean the Valkyrie had landed and the Emperor’s mercy was not far off. The door-platform of the Valkyrie, his new torture-cell, began to open. Icarus weakly looked up as he laid there belly on the ground, and he looked upon the man he would only know as the Inquisitor, but without his silhouette. The Inquisitor looked as most Witch-Hunters do, with a large-brimmed hat displaying an Inquisitional buckle and imposing coat with as many purity-seals as teeth in Icarus’ mouth. The Inquisitor’s head-wrap was the same crimson colour, and it continued to stare into Icarus despite the Inquisitor’s blinding-being. Icarus reached a weak arm out, as if to touch the hand of God and would open his mouth, quivering at the lip, but the Inquisitor was the first to speak. ‘Icarus Ivarius, you have been condemned to die for the crime of association, by methods of crucifixion.’ The Inquisitor stepped forward, revealing a world of barren grey-sand behind him. An endless sea of nothingness. As Icarus, on his final thread, continued to reach out, the Inquisitor above suddenly jolted down, and Icarus felt an intense stabbing pain through the top of his hand. Ripping through skin, muscle, nerve, and bone, the Inquisitor had planted a large nail into Icarus’ hand, bringing it down to the ground. Crying out in pain, he attempted to resist for the first time as the other nail began to dig into him, slower this time, no doubt as a punishment for his thrashing about. As he screamed and wiggled, fighting against the coming dark, an Inquisitional storm-trooper on standby took three large steps forward and clubbed Icarus’ forehead with the butt-end of his hot-shot lasrifle. Feeling that pain for only a brief moment, Icarus fell into unconsciousness, that dark he had dreaded just a moment ago now felt like newfound peace.

When Icarus’ eyes reopened, all was grey. The skies were overcast, the winds picked up the grey sun-bleached sands like a smokescreen, and that sand seemed near endless. He had been looking at the sky, laying on his back, but he didnt feel the sensation of sand. No, he felt -wood-. Looking to his right, then to his left, Icarus wanted to scream like he had, but the throbbing pain in his head mixed with his hopelessness and shame had fatigued him absolutely. His hands had been nailed stuck, arms spread-eagle. When he looked down, a tear streamed down from his dry eyelid at what he saw: his legs had been surgically removed, but the sensation of them still remained, like phantoms of what once was. ‘Cruel.. This- is cruel...’ he moaned, and his words were countered by the shape of the Inquisitor, half-silhouetted by the rays of the sun. ‘This is not cruel, witch. Cruelty would be to blood-let you whilst your eyes are wide with agony. Cruelty would be to nail you upon your crucifix with cries of fear wetting your throat. This is judgement, and you will be grateful.’ Just as the words left the Inquisitor’s throat, before Icarus even had time to respond, menial servitors would come into sight, lowering their arms and raising them, pulling up on the crucifix. Icarus felt himself raise into the air, high into the air, and was able to dismiss the stinging pain of blood seeping from his forehead into his eyes well enough. ‘The Pysker is an invisible threat to the Imperium of Mankind that exists in the open, a disease walking amongst pure men.’ The Inquisitor spoke loudly, as if talking to not just Icarus. ‘Across an impossible amount of worlds, only a single Psyker has the ability to destroy all that is good and laboured for. They exist to combust, to destroy the earths around them. The worst of them masque themselves as common foot, leading charges and slaying foes at the behest of the Astra Militarum, only serving to expose good men to the perverse nature of the warp and it’s sicknesses. You, Icarus, bear responsibility for an untold number of led-astray soldiers. They would have prospered if not for your taint given onto you before you ever ripped your way out of your mother’s womb.’ The blood began to disperse from Icarus’ eyes and eyelids, and a sight worse than anything he had seen yet presented itself. Worse than any mutant, or xeno structure. Worse than any pain that could be inflicted onto him. ‘Look now to your ilk, and feel shame, but feel gratefulness that neither they nor you will ever bring about further ruin that lay waiting in the murk of your spirit.’ Icarus did look out, and saw row after row after row after row after row after row after row of crucified men, all stripped naked and marked with Inquisitional brands. Some of them lived yet, gasping out in thirst, and some if not most were long-since dead, horrible man-sized birds eating from their exposed man-flesh and entrails. Icarus looked to his left, then his right, and despaired further. Icarus had just been another one in the line, and surely there would be more coming to sandwich his own line. Insufficient, insignificant, and doomed. ‘We serve He—dutifully, l-l-lord.’ Icarus sputtered out from his ever-drying lips. ‘As all living things machine and flesh should, witch. But you are -volatile-, too dangerous to live. A singular mistake, one wrong flick of your finger, and the horrors of the Immaterium use you as playthings, and expeditiously your “dutiful service” means nothing. In this act, I preserve the lives of all the ignorant Guardsmen you surrounded, witch. They will know only the God-Emperor, and the warp will never overtake them as it would have lest you have been allowed to roam.’ The Inquisitor began to go on another tirade, speaking with utter sternness completely void of empathy. Icarus listened in and out, but his hearing had begun to weaken. Ringing, and the pooling of blood in his ears from internal bleeding had rendered the Inquisitor’s speech into a mostly incomprehensible mumbled mess. Icarus, when he saw the Inquisitor had finished, made a final request. ‘L-lord, please, I ask of y-y-y-you your—-‘ There was a short pause as Icarus gasped for breath. ‘Your name, Inquisitor. Please tell m-me your name.’ The Inquisitor did not honour this request, and guided by servos that lightly pulled on his shoulders, he turned to where his personal Valkyrie had landed. The unnamed Inquisitor would leave this unnamed sector of this unnamed world, leaving behind thousands of markings as a presentation to the God-Emperor. ‘Please! Please!’ Icarus used some of his remaining strength to appeal to the Inquisitor. ‘I was loyal! Even onto death! I accept my sentence! Please, your name, please!’ The Inquisitor began to fade from Icarus’ sight, and disappear into the grey sand-winds. But before he did, the Inquisitor shouted something back, his voice a loud boom. ‘Heydrich! For the vile you’ve slain, you will know me as Heydrich!’ The Inquisitor’s voice echoed throughout the sand dunes, and without so much as another word, he vanished. As the sand began to creep its way into Icarus’ open wounds, his mouth and eyes, his mind shattered. No more was he an esteemed Primaris Psyker under the banner of the Imperium of Mankind. He had become Icarus, and nothing more. ‘HEYDRICH!’ He screamed, using the remaining strength in him. ‘HEYDRICH!’ He screamed, searching for any ounce of power in him. ‘HEYDRICH!’ He screamed, recalling all of his life simultaneously. His rise and fall happened in only a matter of thirty years, and it was nothing but relentless pain. ‘HEYDRICH!’ He screamed, now with anger. The Imperium had turned his back on him. ‘HEYDRICH!’ He screamed, the Inquisitor being the prime focus of his mind, the only image he was able to comprehend. Icarus tried to shake his hands free from their nails, but he did not have the strength left to die even touching the ground, he had devoted all of it to shouting the Inquisitor’s name in vain. ‘HEYDRICH!’ His voice weakened. ‘Heydrich!’ As Icarus shouted, sand swarmed his mouth, and he gagged and spit, then he started to choke. ‘Hey-dri—‘ Icarus would try, and fail. His pain had finally overcome his will, and he dropped his head, falling into the clutch of death.

Meanwhile, just beyond the thinnest layer of flowing sand that separated Icarus and the Inquisitor, Heydrich nodded to himself. His work had been done, and so it must begin again. ‘The Psyker will reject his God when faced with death. He will hate his masters, instead of thanking them, and doom his soul. For the newest’s transgressions, we will bring one-hundred more to this hallowed place.’ Inquisitor Heydrich spoke to his three Inquisitorial Stormtrooper guard. He could speak to them, even if they had nothing to say to him, and he confided in this unwavering trust. The four of them soon would all gather in a black-painted Valkyrie transport, and ascend, away from the fallen Icarus.


End file.
